Razor Bound
by BigEvilShine
Summary: One moon sugar eating Breton got mixed up with the wrong daedra and now it's her and a reluctant Dremora stumbling around Solstheim looking for answers. OC!Breton x OC!Dremora. Checkout SKITAMINE on Tumblr for a bunch of cute tagged art of Razor Bound.
1. Chapter 1

"I'd stay away from the Telvanni if I were you," Teldryn Sero advised his drinking companion. The Breton woman sighed, emptying her bottle of flin. The two sat in the Retching Netch, holed up a table in the far back of the taproom. It was early evening; the cornerclub filled with tired shopkeepers and off duty guards looking for a bite to eat and something to wet their tongues. A recent ash storm had abated only yesterday, the crowds out in droves, finally be able to escape their homes.

"I wouldn't be doing it if I had a choice, I know how wizards can get," the Breton replied. She gestured to the Dremora standing in the darkened corner behind the table, perhaps hidden in the shadows if not for the dull scarlet glow of his daedric armor, "but the situation is somewhat desperate."

Teldryn snorted, taking an aggressive pull from his sujamma. His companion looked miserable, as ready to collapse from the weight on her shoulders as from the lack of sleep darkening her eyes. Her normally tanned skin had paled to a sick ivory, the silver blonde hair she kept in a braid only making her look more wraithlike. Whether or not she was aware of it, Dianthe had nearly driven herself into her grave in the search for answers.

"Wizards are one thing, sera, but the Telvanni are another. Have you been to that Winterhold College?" he tried, hoping to dissuade her from travelling to Tel Mithryn and getting mixed up with Neloth. Dianthe smiled mirthlessly, resting her tired eyes as she explained how utterly useless the mages were on her problem. She'd been chasing rumors since then, even seeking out an expert on the Mythic Dawn to try and find aid. The sellsword found himself intrigued, asking how that turned out. This time the girl grinned, a mean flint reaching her crinkled eyes as she slid Mehrunes' Razor onto the small tabletop.

"The Prince was helpful, gave me what I wanted and more," she laughed with a small manic hitch. One of the Redoran guard chose that time to pass by their table, his bulky bonemold armor knocking into Dianthe as he lurched on unsteady, drunken feet. Her colorless gray eyes flashing, Dianthe snatched up the Razor, subtly angling to slip it up through the bonemold plates and into the offending Dunmer's kidney. Behind her the Dremora uncrossed his arms, fingers twitching to unsheathe the greatsword at his back and cleave the guard in two. Soon the moment passed, a Dunmer maiden across the room catching the offending guard's attention causing him to teeter off, drink in hand.

Dianthe watched him go, releasing a shaky breath as she sheathed the Razor. Teldryn felt himself relax, his hand releasing the pommel of his elven sword. The Breton ran a shaking hand through her hair, snagging her fingers against the thick braid that hung to her middle back. She shivered in place, hunching her shoulders up to her ears and biting her lips together.

She glared down at the table, shaking her head, "I can't keep it up, Teldryn. Something has to give before I do. Whatever the Telvanni has to say or do is fine. It'll be better than living like this," she pushed away from her seat, momentarily leaning her weight against it when her head swam. "I'll be retiring for the night and setting out in the morning. Goodnight, it's been nice seeing you again."

Teldryn watched her weave through the crowd of Dunmer with the Dremora at her back. She disappeared into her room with the daedra, leaving Teldryn with a pit forming in his gut. He knew an addict when he saw one, and Dianthe was withdrawing. That didn't trouble him nearly as much as the reason why she had turned to moon sugar, the reason her life had begun an abrupt downward spiral in the last year. Teldryn pulled down the cloth covering his mouth, upending his sujamma and gulping down half the bottle. He relished the flush it brought to his mind, the quiet muting fuzz of his thoughts.

He didn't fight the way it numbed his guilt, the relief it brought from not being capable of helping her. The gods knew she needed it, but she would suffer. He pulled the cloth over his face again, leaning back into his seat. Her involvement with the Princes had cost her.


	2. Chapter 2

Vaermina's attendants were persistent. Dianthe pressed her boot into the Bosmer's chest, yanking her steel bolt from the elf's skull. How many was that now, fourteen? Twenty? In the last week alone more and more of the Prince's worshippers had been coming out of the wood work, each of them following visions given by the Weaver of Panoply. Visions showing Dianthe's location, showing that whosoever killed her would receive favor in the Prince's eyes. She knew aiding in destroying the Skull of Corruption had been a risk, but now she knew it had been a mistake.

Dianthe finished salvaging what bolts she could and wrapped her tattered cloak tighter, bowing her head against the burning cold winds of the Pale. She trudged up the snow-addled steps of the shrine, fear and hunger twisting in her gut. Dianthe had grown desperate with each of Vaermina's assassins, with every night that passed where she couldn't rest. If she wanted to survive she needed help. Erandur had found freedom from the Prince's hold through his Lady Mara, but Dianthe didn't have time to earn her favor. She ascended the last step, her boot slipping on the snow crusted plateau, and squinted up at the grimacing visage of Mehrunes Dagon. She shivered in the presence of the shrine; knowing whatever was to come she had to succeed. This was her last chance.

Silus had been a fool to think both of them would be able to step foot from this shrine again, that gold would dissuade Dianthe. The Prince of Destruction had said his share, ordering the mortals to duel, Dianthe was more than willing to oblige. It was a small comfort when the man had fought back with flames but Dianthe was quicker, more precise, and too desperate to fail. When his body fell lifeless into the blood-speckled snow, the Razor began to reassemble. Dianthe had barely plucked it from the altar when the Dremora exploded forth from summoning portals. Beaten, bloody, and weary, Dianthe dropped into a defensive crouch. She ignored the pull of the charred flesh on her arms and face, of the cracking black skin as she dove from heavy swings of the burning greatswords.

She ran out of bolts before either Dremora showed any hints of fatigue. Her magicka was drained just healing the wounds that threatened to bleed out. The first daedra's death was a fluke; the beast had charged her with his arms overhead, bellowing his joyous war cries. Dianthe clutched the Razor and dropped to a low crouch, springing up and meeting the blade between the plates of his armor. The Dremora's cries cut short, the massive beast dropping his sword and slumping forward, dead. He collapsed on Dianthe, pinning her beneath his immense body. She wriggled, helplessly locked under the gargantuan form. Over the spiked shoulder, Dianthe saw the other Dremora quickly approaching.

Dianthe gave one last heave, managing to lift the corpse enough to free her arms. She yanked a crinkled and torn scroll from beneath her armor, throwing herself into the words and reciting the stolen scroll with haste. The words poured out from her swift lips, the edges of the tattered parchment already beginning to char as the spell built. The daedra snarled, swinging his greatsword just as the parchment disappeared. With a frightened cry, Dianthe hurled the Razor, the thin blade just catching the Dremora's ear. He remained unfazed, ready to bring the blade down on the trapped girl.

But he faltered.

The Dremora's confusion was apparent. Coming to a stop over her, he once more attempted to decapitate the trembling Breton. Before the blade bit into her soft creamy flesh it veered off, digging into the stone just a hair's breadth from her pulsing jugular, a burst of silver sparks showering her cheek. Hissing curses in his native tongue, the Dremora sheathed his greatsword and dropped to a knee, ready to liberate her head from her shoulders by hand. Yet again, he found his hands only grasping her throat. Not even capable of cutting off her breath. He snarled, blood trickling down his pointed ear.

"It worked," Dianthe breathed, relieved tears springing to her eyes. She had the audacity to rub her cold face while the daedra gnashed his teeth and continued to try and clench his armored claws around her throat.

"What have you done to me?" he bellowed, not an arm's length from her face. To her credit Dianthe wasn't so confident as to not tremble when faced with an infuriated servant of Mehrunes Dagon. Swallowing thickly, her voice shook, "I've bound you. For as long as I live you obey my will."

The Dremora recoiled, stepping back and looking sharply up at the stone visage of his lord. The daedra shook his head slowly. No, he had not been forsaken like this. He stared at the small girl as she continued to try and wrench herself free from his fallen Kyn, to the Razor lying in the snow behind him with just a drop of his dark blood.

"Please roll this daedra off of me," Dianthe called. The living Dremora clenched his fists, striding forward to tear off her jaw, but found himself complying to her will. She struggled to her feet, shaking off snow and shivering. Gathering up the Razor she glanced up warily at her bound Dremora.

"Tell me your name."

"Tachkal," the word forced his way past his clenched teeth, the daedra shaking with fury as his body betrayed him. The mortal nodded, running her fingers through her pale blonde hair, brushing blood stained snow from the strands. Shuffling her feet and clearing her throat, Dianthe glanced up into the enraged black eyes of her new guardian, unsure of what she'd gotten herself into.

"Explain," he bit, taking a step closer. Dianthe barely kept her ground, having to force herself to not look away from his boiling eyes. Taking an unsure breath, she began, "old magic, a binding scroll to create a pact between a mortal and a daedra."

"A pact implies I am not your slave, that we both have given sacrifice," Tachkal hissed. Dianthe nodded hurriedly, "yes, you're bound to me until I die but after that you're free from my influence," she hesitated, "and my soul will be tied to you. Our roles will reverse, in a way."

The Dremora paused, searching the ground as he absorbed this information. Slowly, a fanged grin spread maliciously across his lips, "you trade your miserably short life for an eternity of torture. Truly you are a fool." He chuckled at her flinch, flexing his clawed hands at the thought of what he would do to her body when the time came. Shaking herself, Dianthe's resolve returned. She stood straight, squaring her shoulders, "if that's what it takes then I don't particularly mind. You're not to harm me while I live. Protect me and don't kill people that aren't hostile," she paused, trying to figure out if she was missing anything. Shrugging off the contemptuous sneer he gave her, she offered her hand.

"I'm Dianthe the Unbidden," she hesitated, "sorry about this, Tachkal." He didn't move to grasp her arm in camaraderie and Dianthe didn't press the issue. Sighing, she ordered him to follow her and together they left the shrine. Tachkal glanced at his fallen brother, for once envious of a disgraceful death.

.

.

.

**/AN: I'm totally fudging with Dremora culture. Sue me./**


	3. Chapter 3

Dianthe glanced over her shoulder at the lumbering Dremora, for once able to move faster than the long legged daedra. The ash drifts coating southern Solstheim were deep and more difficult to move through than snow, but the light Breton managed to fall only ankle deep in the drifts. The Dremora wasn't so lucky, his armor alone nearly weighing as much as Dianthe; he was plunged into the ash as deep as his calves in some places. The journey to Tel Mithryn was slow, but it could have been worse. At least they weren't at the northern end of the island where those horrid blue monstrosities scurried about, ready to spear their ankles through.

"You need to lose weight, you're getting fat," she poorly joked, taking a moment to retie the scarf shielding her nose and mouth from the polluted air. The daedra ripped his heavy boot from the ash, glaring oily black eyes at her. Dianthe had forced him to tie a red scarf on before they'd left, none too eager to deal with a daedra suffering from ash lung. He'd relented only after she'd ordered him, proving that he was still bound to her will. For now.

A handful of reavers and a trio of ash spawn lay dead by the time Dianthe and her companion reached Tel Mithryn, both sick of Solstheim and eager to get out of the ashlands. Even if their only other option was a giant fungus. Forcing open the front door of the main tower brought Dianthe into a small alcove with a shimmering blue light. It spiraled upwards, high into the column of the mushroom into what looked like a wide chamber. Too desensitized from dealing with Princes to be wary of the glow, she stepped forward and felt her stomach drop to her heels as she was propelled upwards.

Tel Mithryn's laboratory was a wide domed chamber, the air slightly humid and warm with the walls and floor built from the hard sponge of fungus. Gently dropping to a landing dock, she moved forward, allowing room for her Dremora to loudly hit the wooden boards at her back. The lab was illuminated with various lanterns and candles as well as a candlelight spell drifting over a Dunmer in saffron mage's robes. From the looks of him Dianthe decided he was too reasonable to be Neloth, and correctly guessed the man in resplendent gold, garnet, and chitin adorned robes bent over an enchanting table was the great Telvanni wizard. She approached without hesitation, meeting his irritated crimson eyes when he glanced up.

"And what are you doing up here?" he snapped, not bothering to turn away from his work. The wizard's gray hands gestured a bit, a set of filled grand and black soul gems floating over from a nearby shelf.

"Dianthe the Unbidden and her bound Dremora," she introduced herself simply; increasingly aware that she and the daedra were tracking soot into the lab. Cringing, she resolved to not move and kept her steady gaze on the wizard. His lip curled, "I don't care."

"I'd hope not. I've come because I have questions concerning dreams," she began, watching as Neloth rolled his eyes, dropping a few pieces of enchanted jewelry on the table and setting to work.

"I believe you'll want a soothsayer for your interpretations, I don't waste time on such nonsense," he dismissed, disdain heavy in his wrinkled nose.

"It's been a year since I aided in destroying Vaermina's Skull of Corruption," Dianthe began bluntly, continuing when she saw the faintest curious perk in Neloth's long ear. "For this I've earned her wrath. I can't sleep anymore, she traps me any chance she can to burden my mind with…visions, visions of things she has no business knowing," Dianthe clenched her fists, "she sends her followers after me during the day. She's working from the inside and out to have me killed."

"Doesn't seem like an overly pressing matter," Neloth drawled, crossing the lab to a partitioned off corner that held a staff enchanter. Dianthe followed him, already forgetting her ashen tracks.

"I've only managed by binding this Dremora," she confessed, rubbing her puffy eyes.

Neloth chuckled darkly, "what, didn't learn the lesson not to associate with beings much more powerful than yourself the first, second, or third time? Oh, I didn't miss the Razor on your hip, girl." His words had Dianthe grinding her teeth, her fingers drifting to the onyx pommel of said weapon. Of all the Daedric Princes she'd encountered Mehrunes Dagon had been the most forthright, the easiest to deal with. The boon she'd been given was deadly in its own right, hard won and had paid for itself threefold within days of its acquisition. He may have tried to kill her but she'd barely expected less from the Prince of Destruction. In fact she'd counted on it.

"Can you help me or not, Neloth?" she growled, days without sleep catching up with her. The wizard remained quiet for a time, working on his staves. Dianthe remained in the round doorway, unsure whether she'd been dismissed. Finally the old Dunmer turned to face her, hand on his hip.

"That's hardly a question, the correct query would be _will_ I help you. I'm a wizard of House Telvanni, of course I _could_ help you," he scoffed, "I'd be lying if I said you haven't piqued my curiosity but my work lies elsewhere. Should I find something on dreams I'll let you know. Until then, get out, I'm busy," he snapped.

Dianthe nodded, stepping to the side to let the wizard pass. He carried a few enchanted staffs to his apprentice, shoving them into his arms, "Talvas, see to it these are sold. Have Varona pick up soul gems as well, and I'll be needing a look at your toes later." The younger Dunmer shivered, but nodded quickly, heading to the levitating entranceway with the staves bouncing about in his arms. Deciding that was all she was going to get from Neloth for the day, Dianthe beckoned for Tachkal and together they left Tel Mithryn.

The Breton and the Dremora hunted through the ash-covered land, eventually finding a trap door in a barely standing shack. Descending into the basement Tachkal quickly tore apart the two reavers inside before tossing their remains out through the trap door. Dianthe hunkered down in a chair by the fire, idly scooping a few gems from the table into her satchel. She yawned, shaking her head and digging through her pack for something to eat.

"That Neloth is a bastard but I don't know where else to go," Dianthe muttered, offering Tachkal a few strips of smoked and salted meat. He took it without question, tearing into the venison. Dianthe took a few bites of her own before handing the rest to the daedra, then delving deeper into her pack and producing a small nearly empty drawstring bag. She drew the small pouch open, shaking fingers dipping in, pulling out a shard of solid moon sugar. The shining gold and pink crystal was as large as the last segment on her pinkie.

Tachkal remained silent, glaring into the fire as his mistress sucked the shard past her lips, hunching forward and holding herself as she savored the raw sugar. Beside him the small Breton folded nearly in half, humming quietly and shuddering as the moon sugar melted and flooded across her tongue. After a few minutes the shivering ceased, her body easing as she sat back and blinked slowly down at her lap. By now the darks of her eyes had widened, nearly enveloping the watery gray irises, her ever present trembling banished with the small taste of moon sugar settling in her veins. Slowly she arched back, stretching luxuriously against the chair and smiling wanly at the hum in her blood. Dianthe would stay in this state of pleasure for a few minutes, not a care in the world to be had. With her euphoria came insomnia. It was the reason she had taken up the vice, seeking respite from the things in her dreams and Vaermina's ministrations.

Beside her Tachkal had finished eating his meal and the remains of what the reavers had been dining on. He had slaked his thirst on he and Dianthe's shared wineskin, idly licking the dark juice from his lip. When Dianthe lay on the rug beside the fire he stripped her pack and crossbow away, moving her things out of reach as she drifted into a state of unfeeling delirium. With her eyes cracked open she simply stared straight at Tachkal, occasionally having the decency to wipe the drool from her cheek.

"Don't look at me like that," she complained. The Dremora snorted, looking down at the girl between his feet. He wasn't sure why she was so resistant to letting Vaermina's beasts into her dreams. Instead she let her body and mind fall into rot, choosing not to trust him to protect her. He resented her for it.

"I will look at you as I please," Tachkal rumbled, nudging her stomach with a spiked boot. She loosed a quiet complaint, pouting and lightly slapping at his armored calf. He continued to push her until she rolled onto her back, blinking questioningly when he kept his heavy boot on her stomach. During these moments of moon sugar abuse he often enjoyed performing small cruelties to his master. She was too incoherent to order him away properly, her mind too fuddled to remember what he'd done. Hooking her under the arms he pulled her onto her knees, positioning her between his spread thighs. She frowned when he set her hands on his sides.

"Remove my armor, whore," Tachkal growled, enjoying the faint spark of fear in her eyes. With clumsy fingers she began unhooking his cuirass, scooting closer to reach around the Dremora's wide chest. She undid the buckles, letting out a small grunt to lift the heavy black and glowing red plate from his body. Next she obediently set to work on Tachkal's belt buckles, biting her lip in concentration. On her third try he helped her, giving her a slap on the back of the head for her incompetence.

The Dremora discarded his gauntlets and leaned back on his hands, further spreading out his legs when Dianthe tugged off his boots. He was left in a charcoal gray tunic and steely black pants, the fabric stretched tight over his gargantuan body. The clothes had been snagged from a fallen enemy a while back; Dianthe had spent time altering them to make room for his thickly muscled form. However she hadn't lowered the hems. It left the Dremora with sleeves that came to an end at his forearms, pants at his calves, and the tunic showing a hand's breadth of dark skin around his middle. He wasn't so petty as to care about his appearance around mortals, yet still disliked the clothing. It was a symbol of his indentured life in this realm, of his ties with the drug-addled girl leaning heavily against his thigh.

"You're pathetic," he purred, running long clawed nails through her hair, undoing the fat braid. She shrugged limply, nuzzling against his thigh. Tachkal curled a finger around a lock of white blonde hair. "Everyday I loathe you more, I fantasize about how neatly your small heart would fit in my palm," he sneered, tugging sharply. Dianthe whined, looking up at him with wide confused eyes. She lurched forward, locking her arms around his waist and taking a deep breath against his stomach, relishing the man's musk. Blood, firewood, and rain filled her sense of smell. She smiled stupidly into the bare skin before her, nearly licking the salty flesh in her delirious state. Roughly Tachkal shoved her away, sending her to her back, hitting her head on the raised lip of the fireplace.

"Don't do that!" Dianthe yowled, tears springing to her eyes as she held the back of her head. The Dremora growled in warning, resting his arms against his knees and watching the flames again. Before long she would return to her reserved state, barely capable of holding herself together anymore. Tachkal's lip curled, his belly burning with contempt.

He was of the Kyn, an immortal warrior whose appetites were slaked only by the blood of men and mer. To serve something so unworthy of himself as the thing lying at his feet was shameful. He would rather be slain a thousand times than spend another moment at her side.

Still in the throes of her high Dianthe sat up and rest a hand on Tachkal's knee, smiling shyly while tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. "Thank you for not abandoning me," she sniffed bowing forward to wipe her wet face on his inner thigh. The daedra hissed his displeasure, digging his clawed fingertips into the surface of the table.


	4. Chapter 4

Teldryn found Dianthe and the Dremora at the shoreline just north of the Earth Stone. The Dremora leaned against a charred tree, his arms crossed as he watched the dingy horizon. Dianthe was crouched over a pod of dead netches, harvesting the leather and jelly. She leaned back, coated up to the elbows in the lavender gel, and shook the stray hair from her eyes. Happening to spy the approaching sellsword she grinned, waving a slimy hand and dagger.

"You're doing well I hope?" she asked when he came to peer at her work. She'd made quick work of the calf and betty with three pots of jelly already filled but was still digging around in the split open belly of the bull.

"I am, seems you're having fun," he observed. She giggled, accidentally snorting as she stripped leather from the bull's tentacles.

"Neloth's agreed to keep an eye out for anything that may help me, so that's good," she said. Teldryn felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He glanced at the nearby daedra, finding the ink black eyes trained on him. Absentmindedly he fingered the hilt of his blade, trying to ignore the chill darting down his spine.

"I imagine you'll be staying in Solstheim for a time then," he kept his eyes locked with the Dremora's, unbeknownst to Dianthe who was wholeheartedly digging into the netch's carcass. There was a quiet yawn before she answered, "mm, we'll be around for a while yet. Can't go too far away if Neloth finds something interesting. We may head north for a bit, heard there's some barrows brimming with wealth."

"Not a bad plan, but I'd be careful. Rieklings, reavers, pirates, and now I've heard word of Thalmor skulking about up there. Nasty little pests, that lot," Teldryn warned. If Dianthe were alone he'd volunteer in a heartbeat to go with her, the thought of getting out of Raven Rock for a while had him giddy. The gold, gems, and charmed weapons and armor hidden amongst draugr ripe for his atronach's flame were tempting. However a seven-foot deterrent was sulking against a tree, gnashing fanged teeth at the Dunmer.

Dianthe washed her hands and arms at the shoreline before collecting the jelly containers and leather into her pack. "Want to come with? Hanging around the Netch has been making your sword arm flabby, best to put some strength back in it," she teased, strapping on her crossbow and tiptoeing over the corpses. The front of her brown light Dawnguard armor was stained with indigo smears. Tachkal grimaced, sable eyes narrowing dangerously at the elf.

"Maybe next time," Teldryn tactfully refused, not missing Dianthe's disappointed frown. She got over it, muttering about how she thought he'd say that before walking back to town with him. Waving goodbye to the sellsword, Dianthe brewed a few potions at Milore's alchemy table. Selling off ingredients and gifting the alchemist with netch jelly, Dianthe was left awkwardly shuffling in place.

"You wouldn't happen to have any unrefined?" she asked, licking her dry lips. The Dunmer glanced around, checking that they weren't being overheard save for the ever-present Dremora, before giving a small nod. Milore invited Dianthe and the daedra into her home, gesturing for them to sit at a bench by the hearth.

"How much do you need?" Milore asked, pulling down the blue scarf from her face. Dianthe held up her thumb and forefinger, knowing she couldn't afford any more. The alchemist disappeared into the lower levels of her house to locate the moon sugar.

Dianthe had discovered Milore's skooma abuse by accident one evening, knocking into the woman and seeing an infamous purple vial fall from her satchel. Since then she'd made use of her new contact, thanking the gods that she wouldn't have to keep venturing between the Khajiit caravans in Skyrim and Solstheim to feed her addiction. Dianthe made a point not to indulge in the more potent skooma, she still held onto the faint hope that someday she'd overcome Vaermina and get off the stuff.

Milore returned and slid Dianthe two pouches of sugar crystals, waiting patiently as the Breton dug into her pack and forked over gold and gems. Whatever it took.

"Thank you," Dianthe inclined her head, getting to her feet. Milore smiled wanly, patting her back, "don't be a stranger, and you're always a pleasure, Dianthe."

With their funds gone and purse light, the mistress and her immortal decided it might be worth it to delve into the settlement's abandoned mine. It took some going with Dianthe preferring stealth and archery while Tachkal preferring cleaving with his greatsword and sounded like a bag of kettles when he walked. Still, the handfuls of old blood stained and dusty coin and occasional jewels made it worth it. The spiders fell from Dianthe's crossbow bolts, the draugr were charred to a crisp under Tachkal's burning blade, but the swinging guillotine filled hallway proved a bit more of an issue.

The light-footed Breton had long since learned how to move like a shadow. She dodged, rolled, sprinted, and ducked under each of the walls of swinging blades, pausing each time to catch her breath and wait for her companion. Tachkal to his credit was wearing nearly a hundred pounds of heavy armor and weaponry and was moving a body nearly twice the size and more than double Dianthe's weight. That he was able to duck through each row of blades with only a shower of sparks erupting against his armor was commendable. When they were midway through the hall, a pendulum caught his cheek.

Dianthe's stomach dropped when she saw the scarlet wound. Her breathing sped into quiet gasps, heart hammering as her hands began to shake. Tachkal roughly wiped at the gash, glancing at his gauntlet and the few dark drops that stained it. Unflustered, in fact already forgetting about the inconsequential mark, he waited for Dianthe to move into the next zone. Except the girl was digging in her pack, brow tight. She produced a small squat jar of dark crème paste. Unstopping the cap, the dipped a finger in the sweet smelling mixture and moved towards the daedra. Scowling, he moved away, knocking her hand back when it came too close to his face.

"Tachkal, it's just healing salve," she moved closer and once again the Dremora stepped back, closer to the bladed pendulums. His jaw clenched, nose wrinkled, "I don't need your filth, slut."

Dianthe's hands continued to tremble, tears beginning to collect in her eyes. She bit her lip, face contorted between the need to cry and urge to scream out all her frustrations. She hadn't slept in days, her body itched for moon sugar, she was hundreds of feet beneath the earth surrounded by swinging guillotines, and her only protection was bleeding. Swallowing down the vile emotions thickening her throat, she commanded her daedra, "Tachkal, get over here."

The binding compelled his legs forwards yet the Dremora's teeth creaked at how hard he clenched them. Satisfied when he was close enough, Dianthe gestured for him to lean down and the daedra obliged out of sheer knowledge it would end his suffering sooner. She applied the thick paste over the gash on his cheek, gently tapping the mixture to help spread it along. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, warmer than any man or mer's could be. He made a face at her coddling, twisting his mouth and sighing loudly. When she finished applying the salve she quickly wrapped an arm around his neck, burying her face against his dusky skin. Tachkal stiffened, hands jerking into predatory claws in surprise. As fast as the unwanted touch had come Dianthe moved back, sliding the jar of paste back into her pack and wiping the moisture from her eyes.

"Let's hurry up and get out of here, I need to use soon," she muttered, diving through the next set of blades. Adjusting the greatsword at his back, Tachkal shrugged off the woman's odd behavior and charged forward.

Ducking past the final row of deadly pendulums, Dianthe sent a silent thanks to the gods when they entered a large chamber. The far wall was only accessible across a wide pool of water that dominated the chamber, one of those word walls barely visible on the other side. What captured her interest wasn't the aqua green water or mysterious wall, but the large chest centered on a stone platform on the close side of the pool. Filled with relief, she unwound her tired hunched shoulders and strode forward, easily popping the lock and tilting back the lid. A stirring in the water surprised her, making her drop the lid as something bulged beneath the pool's surface.

In a burst of electrical energy a Dragon Priest rose from the bottom of the pool. Dianthe's breath caught in her throat, her hands fumbling as she ripped the crossbow from her back. At her side Tachkal drew his burning blade, dropping into a wide sturdy stance and grinning at the new challenge.

Spider legs of lightning tore across the chamber, charring stone and hissing steam against water. Tachkal charged, plunging headlong into the pool and bellowing his fury at the undead Priest. Dianthe dipped her steel bolts in poisons on her belt, snapping them into her crossbow and needling the hovering creature as it drifted over the water's surface.

Tachkal had corralled the undead toward the side of the pool where he was only hip deep, capable of slamming his greatsword against the corpse's armored chest. The Priest was busy with the Dremora but wasn't so occupied he couldn't snap a summoning into existence. Dianthe whipped to face the newcomer, and felt her skin crawl at what slithered forth.

Rotten green and brown rags covered the hunched back of the daedra, dripping tentacles and withered clawed arms sprouted from its chest. Dominating its belly was a gaping toothy maw that undulated as the creature moved over the water with disconcerting silence. It coiled an orb of trembling magic in its thin palms and that's when Dianthe snapped out of her shock, diving behind the chest. The creature's spell slammed against the chest, rocking the heavy container in place. Quickly popping up Dianthe unloaded a quick flurry of bolts, breathing fast between clenched teeth as it steadily moved closer.

The strange beast continued to bear down on Dianthe, forcing her to retreat as wave after wave of the strange spell barreled after her. She was quick enough to roll and leap away from most but when they struck her she felt the breath sucked from her chest. She dropped to a knee, gasping and forcing her suddenly heavy limbs to move again. The Dragon Priest slid away from Tachkal, retreated to the center of the pool, albeit a few inches closer to the water than he'd been before. Snarling, the Dremora charged the summon and brought his greatsword down with a wet slice, splitting the daedra from the crown of its scalp until the greatsword struck with a flurry of sparks against the stone beneath. The tentacle-covered creature gurgled, fizzling back to its home in Oblivion. Steel bolts clattered to the ground in its absence. Tachkal spat in its ashes, sneering, "no match at all."

"Thanks," Dianthe croaked, finally getting to her feet. Tachkal grunted, his armor covered in root systems of lightning scorches. Dianthe's eyes widened when the Priest raised his staff, she opened her mouth to shout but the Dremora had already begun to turn to face the undead.

The bolt of lightning that struck Tachkal's side was as thick as his wrist, the force of it knocking him to the ground and sending his blade spinning away. Dianthe screamed, unloading bolt after bolt into the Priest as she howled curses. Tachkal's vision blurred from where he lay, one hand over his side felt something soft and wet, and returned covered in cerise liquid. He looked down in a daze. A chunk of his cuirass had been torn away by the spell, his right flank and stomach exposed. The charred and bubbling flesh beneath oozed with fury, his body as much scorched by lightning as flayed by magic. Finally, he would die in Mundus and return to his home, be free of this nightmare of servitude. A clatter drew his attention, the crossbow slamming to the ground near his side. Tachkal's eyes widened at the sight beyond.

Silver streams stained Dianthe's cheeks, her eyes wide and bloodshot as she sprinted forward. She howled nonsensically, Mehrunes' Razor in hand as she approached the chest. In one nimble leap she launched herself from the chest, raising the Bane of the Righteous overhead in a two handed grip. The Dragon Priest rattled his own ancient tongue, raising his staff at the girl. She slammed into him, her living flesh outweighing his papery form and together they plunged beneath the water, only a maverick streak of lightning boiling the water in their wake.


	5. Chapter 5

Tachkal forced himself to his feet, hissing as blood gushed from his wound. He waited for something to resurface, expecting the corpse of his mistress and an uninjured Dragon Priest. Breathing heavily, his scanning eyes found nothing. The formerly cacophonous chamber rang quiet once more, only the lap of the disturbed pool keeping him company. He held his side, knowing that all the healing potions were in Dianthe's pack, which was now somewhere underwater with her. Finally he forced one foot in front of the other and trudged into the clear jade water. Poppy red blossomed around him, staining the waters with his daedric blood as he searched. Taking a deep breath, he dove.

He found her unmoving, wedged under the Dragon Priest's armor. Grabbing her arm he dragged her free, breaking the surface with a ragged gasp as his side stung from the heavy breaths. Tossing Dianthe's body on the stone at the foot of the word wall he climbed from the pool, rivulets of water and blood running from his armor. Dianthe didn't move. Her chest immobile and lips parted lifelessly.

Tachkal could still feel the faint pull of his binding to the mortal and through that he knew she was close to death. The lightning scars trailed over her pale skin like pink spider webbing, her clothing and pack as waterlogged as the inside of her damaged body. If he wished, Tachkal could allow her to die. It would be easy, maybe even a just punishment for what she'd done to him. His lips pulled into a mean grin, thinking of how he'd lay claim to her soul in Oblivion and spend all eternity correcting her for her mistake in binding him. He dropped to a knee, staring down over the just alive girl. His dark hair hung in wet clumps, droplets falling from him to her face. He leaned in closer, ragged gasps blowing against her parted lips. With a heavy breath, Tachkal came to a conclusion.

"BREATH, WHORE," he bellowed, not a hand's breadth from her face. Dianthe's eyes flew open, fright restarting her heart. She made to scream but gagged, rolling to her side to retch water over the stone while Tachkal dug through her pack for healing potions.

Dianthe finished clearing her lungs and set about wiping the tears, snot, and saliva from her face, "is he dead? Did we win?" she croaked. Tachkal sat heavily, choosing not to answer her as he drained potion after potion. Dianthe eventually got her face clean and in the process discovered the sensitive red streaks marking her skin. Together daedra and mortal polished off half the healing potions and a small jar of paste, still drenched and sitting before a dormant word wall. When she was feeling reasonably alive again Dianthe dove down into the pool to collect what she could from the fallen Priest's remains, resurfacing wearing his horrible mask. She enjoyed the small start her Dremora gave at the sight of her helmed face before swimming over to loot the chest, Tachkal moving through the shallows with her pack to get to her side.

Moving into the connected chamber Dianthe and Tachkal dripped over the dusty stone floor, warily approaching a dark book set upon a pedestal. Dianthe frowned, first to approach the tome. It was odd, seemingly bound in dry wrinkled leather that somehow pulsed. She teetered closer, craving to know what this odd book held within the confines of its engorged pages. Raising a hand, she brushed her fingertips against the coarse cover only to have Tachkal haul her back by the scruff of her armor. She frowned up at him.

"Don't touch that," was all he said through clenched teeth, shoving the girl ahead of him and out of the chamber.

"So we've got a Priest's mask, that weird red sword, a pouch full of jewels, the guy's great grandda's journal, some Empire pendants, enough coin to pay for a room at the Netch for another week, and we only had to both nearly die and use up half our supplies and ruin all the food and a load of the ingredients I had on me to get it all," Dianthe grumbled, "lovely. Well at least we know the Razor's still instantly killing things." They both sat in the crumbling fortress the mine turned barrow had led them too. Tachkal had thrown just about every reaver from the high bridges and chuckled when their bodies cracked against the ground. Dianthe had stripped out of her light Dawnguard armor near a lit brazier, hanging the garments on a nearby staircase to dry. Looking over her summon as he too began removing his soaked and damaged armor, she smacked a hand over her face and dragged it.

"We've got to have Glover look at that cuirass, it's completely wrecked," she huffed. She could already feel the wealth leeching from their purse at the thought. Tachkal didn't respond, continuing to peel off his damaged clothing until he only wore a loincloth. Dianthe likewise was down to her skivvies, eating the remains of a reaver's meal of baked potatoes and roasted boar. Tachkal had found some horker steak and was ripping into that, tearing it apart with his teeth while his hair dried.

It was quickly decided that the Dremora wanted the Bloodskal blade for himself. After eating he got up and took a few practice swings with the new greatsword, scaring Dianthe out of her skin when a ribbon of red energy slammed into the far wall. Dianthe whispered thanks to every god she knew that she hadn't been in the way of that while a mean grin exposed Tachkal's fangs. For the rest of the time they waited for their clothing to dry Dianthe watched him practice with the greatsword, letting her eyes drift to the silver knot of lightning scars the speckled his side and the rippling muscles that flexed with every powerful step and swing. Curiously she traced her own new scarring, the irritated pink already settled into a cool shining white.

It wasn't quite a blood pact or as influential as their binding, but in a way the shared injury felt right. Physical proof they were brother and sister in arms now, tied to each other for better or worse.

The couple made it back to Raven Rock in the late evening, stopping in at Glover's first. Dianthe had Tachkal remove the cuirass, handing over the damaged piece while the Dremora stood shirtless in the middle of town. She could just feel the Redoran guards glaring them down.

"Well, good news is the mine's back open thanks to you two. I can get you the ebony and leather for free, but the daedra hearts are going to be a problem," the blacksmith rubbed his jaw, fingering the damaged armor. Dianthe had been expecting as much, "any idea where we can find some?"

"Not a one. I can put in an order with Gjalund about getting some through the East Empire Company but it'll be weeks before he's in port again. And he still may not have them," he warned. Dianthe shook her head, knowing short of travelling to an orc stronghold or the College of Winterhold this was the best shot.

"Do that, I'd appreciate it." They finished up their business, leaving the cuirass with Glover. Leading the still indecent Tachkal to Fethis, Dianthe quickly rummaged through his wares. The Dunmer looked up from where he was working at the tanning rack, cocking an eyebrow, "looking for anything particular, outlander?"

"Still have that Dawnguard armor I sold you a while back?" she asked, popping open a trunk. He nodded; pointing her to where the heavy gray armor lay. Pulling that out along with a few other provisions to replace her waning stock, Dianthe paid for her purchase with the Empire pendants and the ugly Priest's mask. Arms filled with the armor she crossed back to Glover's house and set to work on altering it.

Dianthe wasn't the best smith but she'd picked up a few things over the years. She could alter most armors to fit different body types as well as improve them, although not too greatly. It was well past nightfall before she finished her work, heaving the heavy product into her Dremora's lap.

"Put it on," she ordered.

He curled his lip, "I don't want to wear this, tramp."

"You can't walk around half naked and it's going to be a while before your armor's fixed. So just wear this in the meantime," she huffed, putting Glover's borrowed tools away.

Tachkal wondered what he had done to anger his lord in such a way as to be stuck with this mortal. Perhaps this torture was meant to make it all the sweeter when he had her soul in Oblivion. Pulling on the Dawnguard armor, he grimaced at its pathetic thinness. The wide pauldrons felt light and childish compared to his usual daedric spikes. Dianthe studiously circled him, asking Tachkal to bend and twist or raise his arms to test the fit.

"Look at that, I'm so talented," she purred, more than pleased with how well it had come out. Tachkal glared at her over his shoulder, not for the first time wishing he could twist her skull from her shoulders. Still, she had given him something to wear. As nonchalant as they were with each other's bodies he still wasn't fond of being so exposed to the other mortals. Reluctantly he followed Dianthe as she dropped off the journal and collected her coin from the crazy old man, eventually returning to the cornerclub.

The Retching Netch was filled to the brim with ecstatic Dunmer, the sujamma flowing like water in celebration of the reopened mines. Geldis and half the customers cheered at the sight of the weary Breton, the attention turning her pink and making her smile bashfully at the ground. Tachkal was more interested in the free meal of horker and ash yam stew they were served, following Dianthe as she fled to eat in the privacy of their room. He shut the door behind him, spinning the lock into place as she settled on the bed. Gulping down the meal with eagerness he hadn't seen her possessing in months, Dianthe finished her stew and half a loaf of bread before sprawling back against a pillow. Tachkal ate more slowly, finishing off two loaves of bread and a bottle of flin while Dianthe wandered from the room to ask Drovas for a bathing basin. When she returned and set up the bath, he watched her with barely contained boredom.

"You're not getting under those sheets if you don't wash," Dianthe warned, dumping a bucket of hot water over her head. She sat in the basin, using a bar of soap bought from Fethis to scrub away the mildew odor from the barrow and the frankly sour body smell the ashlands had a way of instilling in a person's skin. Tachkal grimaced but nodded, stripping and washing once she'd gotten out of the water and pulled on a long sleeping tunic. For what she's worth, Dianthe was a considerate woman. She pulled a stool to sit behind Tachkal and helped him scrub his immense back while he sat with his feet in the basin. She washed his hair for him and even bothered scrubbing the faint ash dinge from his alabaster horns, handing him his pants when he'd finally finished. They were both done washing before the water had cooled. Together they ended up climbing into bed.

When they used to have coin to spare Dianthe would pay for Tachkal to have his own room. She'd even get him one with the double beds, knowing he didn't fit in the singles comfortably. The past months had put a damper on their wallet since she'd picked up the moon sugar habit and they'd been forced to share a bed for quite some time. At first it had been odd, Dianthe had never shared a bed with another male unless they'd been sharing each others bodies, and Tachkal had never shared a bed with a mortal. They'd quickly gotten over the issue when Tachkal reasoned Dianthe was closer to an animal than a daedra and Dianthe reasoned Tachkal was incredibly warm and more like a furnace than a man.

Unfortunately tonight Dianthe fell sleep. Whether she'd planned to or not it didn't matter, as soon as she hit the pillow sleep had taken her. Tachkal took a bit longer finding a comfortable position and was aware the moment his bedmate was found by Vaermina's touch. He rolled onto his side, propped up on an elbow to watch her suffer.

And suffer she did.

Dianthe clutched the pelts, curled in on herself and gasping against her pillow. Sweat beaded her furrowed brow, her lips parted for quiet pants and faint whines. Tachkal leaned in closer, feeling his heart swell with fondness for her tortured expression. The fearful shivering, Vaermina's hellish visions flooding her mind, it was perfection. He sighed contentedly, feeling a quiet joy flood his chest. He cherished these scant chances to see her in pain, his gaze roaming luxuriously over her tense posture and plump quivering lips. Dianthe whimpered and Tachkal reacted bodily, his cock straining against his oppressively tight pants.

Dianthe chose that moment to seek out comfort, desperately trying to find release from her nightmares, nuzzling in against the Dremora's chest. Tachkal froze, clenching his jaw as her thigh pressed against his stiffness. She burrowed against him, trembling bodily. The daedra's hand hovered over her back, caught midway between holding her to him and shoving her from the bed. He hesitated, the small thing against his chest quietly pleading for help through her terrors.

Vaermina's hold was powerful and sure, Dianthe would be trapped in dream well into the morning so long as the Prince willed it. Tachkal knew this and knew that Dianthe's body was at his mercy until then. With the binding he was only promised not to harm her, and he could do so much within that tenet. He felt his cock twitch at the thought, goading him into using her for his own pleasure. The Dremora threaded his fingers through her long hair. He brought the silken strands to his lips, inhaling the soft scent of soap and marveling at the way the pale strands stood against his ebon fingers. Exploring her further Tachkal slid his nails across her hip, grasping a handful of the soft flesh and growling in the back of his throat, barely stopping himself from thrusting against her.

She shifted, her soft thigh rubbing against him. Precum began to drip from his hardening cock. It urgently and painfully strained against his breeches in favor of the unwitting and helpless girl at his side. Dianthe was all but offering herself to him, her flesh nothing more than a vessel he could spill his seed in, a means to an end that couldn't refuse him. Scowling, the Dremora flipped onto his other side, glaring at the far wall as he bent his knees so his feet wouldn't stick out over the foot of the bed. Dianthe remained pressed into his back, trapped in Vaermina's realm as Tachkal suffered his own disgust at the throbbing hardness in his groin.

She awoke with a start, a choked shriek strangling her throat as she returned to the world of the waking. Dianthe remained in bed for a while more, swaddled in pelts sobbing and trying not to vomit. It was always this way after she slept, somehow her body even weaker and the bags under her eyes even darker. At least she was keeping her stomach contents down, some mornings she wasn't so lucky.

Tachkal was dressed and seated on the edge of the bed with his back to her. He had barely looked at her all morning, making it his business to respond with only short grunts when she asked for things. After she'd collected herself enough to dress, she reclined back into her pillows and indulged in her moon sugar. Tachkal snorted.

"Do you have something to say?" she snapped, glaring as she eased into the bedding, her whole body falling limp. The Dremora turned in place, his arms crossed, "you're weak, unable to face your own fears, having to use that sugar to cope. How very expected of you mortals."

She scoffed, flapping her hand at him, "you have no idea what you're talking about. Immortals could never understand."

"Is that so, harlot?"

"Yes!" she shouted, "I'm only given so long to live, even by mortal standards my lifetime is short compared to the damned elves, and that witch Vaermina's made it her business to ruin what little I have."

"Then why bind us? Before only your life would be forfeit, there was a chance you would escape suffering after death but now you've only ensured it," he hissed, narrowing his eyes. Dianthe huffed, rolling onto her side and nudging Tachkal's hip with her cold toes. He swatted her away, eliciting a whining complaint from the girl.

"I was scared, I didn't want to die," she sighed, throwing a pelt over her head, "I would have been killed sooner or later with all the cultists after me, so I made a choice. It was stupid and I was desperate when I made it but I don't regret it. So."

Tachkal's brow furrowed, milling over her words. Even for a mortal it demonstrated a significant lack of intelligence, her decision bringing her more pain and suffering than a quick death no matter which way Tachkal looked at the issue. The lump of pelts sighed, "see, I knew you wouldn't understand."

"And I don't want to be using forever. I'll stop when I can stand sleeping again," the lump muttered. Tachkal very much doubted her words but found himself bored with the conversation.

Idly he fingered the knick in his ear, the one he'd received from the Razor during he and Dianthe's first meeting. It had been the catalyst that bound him, only by bloodletting from the Bane of the Righteous had he been caught in her contract. He had once pressed her for where she'd got the scroll she'd used for entrapping him. Apparently she'd pocketed it after rummaging through a vampire clan's castle years back. The magic was old, the scroll itself probably the last of its kind, and it had the misfortune to fall into her dubious hands.

Tachkal glared at the bedside table where Mehrunes' Razor lay, glinting in the flickering orange lantern light. How unfortunate that Dagon's champion was a shivering puddle hiding in her bed, scared of her own dreams. Tachkal wondered again what his lord had seen in this girl, this pathetic sniveling mess of a mortal.


	6. Chapter 6

Neloth gave Dianthe and Tachkal the run around before he said anything worthwhile. Fetching heart stones and helping him repair the damaged portion of the fungal laboratory were tedious but simple tasks. Everyone was gathered in the newly repaired chamber housing imprisoned spriggans by the time Neloth finally got around to producing the ring.

"Here, I've enchanted it so that you'll sleep painlessly," he dropped it into Dianthe's palm, "perhaps painlessly is an exaggeration," he corrected. Dianthe raised a worried eyebrow, "specifically what will this do?"

Neloth was already leaving the room, forcing his listeners to follow while he babbled, "you're not suffering from nightmares in the sense of dreams. Vaermina's been spiriting you away to play with in her realm of Quagmire. Do try to read a book or two in your lifetime, if you're not illiterate," he threw over his shoulder making Dianthe scowl before continuing, "there will still be nightmares but you will be beyond her harm. Your sleep will be restless but your mind will be your own."

Dianthe spun the silver ring between her fingers, frowning at the light tinge of enchantment that glistened across the dull surface. "Are there…side effects?"

Neloth's red eyes settled on her and she could just tell how stupid he thought she was, "as with all magic there are unforeseen circumstances bound to arise. Now, if you don't mind I'd like to actually get work done today. Talvas, get over here!"

Dianthe left Tel Mithryn quickly, not interested in what the elves were getting up to. Tachkal had barely ducked through the round doorway before unsheathing the Bloodskal blade. Dianthe looked up from the ring in time to see an Altmer in necromancer's robes and three raised reaver corpses come into view. Tachkal pushed past her and with a rapturous roar and swung the blade, sending a ribbon of crimson light whipping towards the group. The Altmer barely managed to conjure a ward when the attack hit but his thralls weren't so lucky. The most rotten of the corpses split in half like spoilt milk and dropped wetly into the ash. The remaining two corpses stumbled before recovering and drawing their weapons, the taller of the two using a glass warhammer and the other unsheathing twin elven blades.

"Defiler!" the Altmer bellowed, ice spikes forming in his hands. Tachkal was already throwing himself into battle, slamming his greatsword against the thrall's warhammer. Taking a deep breath through her nose, Dianthe pocketed the ring and readied her crossbow.

"I honor Vaermina by slaughtering you and your slave," the necromancer barked, whipping forth ice spikes. Dianthe ducked for cover behind the fungal walkways, popping up to snap steel bolts into the elf. He cried out, stumbling back when one caught his shoulder. When he raised a hand to grasp the wound, Dianthe smirked and shot him again, relishing his cries as his hand now lay pinned against his chest. Now only capable of casting with one hand she had him at a disadvantage. She spared a few more poisoned shots before the elf threw a lucky shard, knocking the crossbow from her arms and cracking three of her fingers.

Tachkal skewered the warhammer wielding reaver, kicking the corpse from his blade just as it began to burn into lavender colored ash. The dual wielding thrall ducked under a slow swing, springing up and driving his swords against the daedra. Sparks erupted from where weapon met armor and with the elf so close Tachkal lunged. He tossed aside his blade, grabbing the reaver around the throat he brought back a clawed fist and slammed his hand into the thrall's belly. Dianthe felt her breath catch when Tachkal yanked out a mess of bulging intestines, writhing in his hand like fat gummy snakes before he discarded them to tear more of the reaver's innards out. Soon chunks of ribcage and a heart joined the growing mass of gore, only then did the reaver finally crumble into ash.

Tachkal breathed deeply, his shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. His immense frame turned, unfathomable black eyes meeting Dianthe's watery grays and for a moment she was pierced. Frozen in place she felt the heat and bloodlust scorching her, her body responding traitorously to that dark gaze. Beneath her armor gooseflesh rose on her skin as her thighs pressed together. And then a spear of ice shattered against the Dremora's back and the moment was gone.

Turning his immense frame and charging, Tachkal gave the necromancer enough time to feel fear before their bodies collided. Daedra and elf crashed into the stony ash, the bigger male settling on top and ripping into the other's chest. Dianthe heard every scream and gurgle, watched as the elf hopelessly kicked his feet against the ash, and all the while the blush on her face grew. The sound of the daedra's masculine grunts accompanied by wet snaps of tendons and bone reverberated in her skull, echoing down through her body where it warmed and wet her womanhood. She whimpered at the sudden slickness, her hands tightening and shaking she reached out to support herself against the fungal walkway, but found her hand already occupied by the Razor.

She gasped, dropping the blade and stumbling back, collapsing into the ash. Her heart thundered, her body overly sensitive, and the Razor shined back at her. She pressed a hand over her heart, squeezing her eyes shut as the rush of blood in her ears deafened the world around her. Dianthe curled back in on herself, focusing on healing her hand rather than the other sensations fighting to overwhelm her control.

Tachkal leaned back, sighing contentedly at the smear between his knees that used to be an elf. He got to his feet, flapping his hands to whip the gore from his gauntlets. Kicking a severed hand out of his way he ambled through the mess of bodies and ash to recover the Bloodskal blade from where he'd thrown it. Sheathing the weapon, he took one last moment to survey the aftermath. Tachkal couldn't help the prideful swell in his chest, the haughty smirk at his work. The utter decimation of his enemies would truly honor his lord.

When the mortal didn't come to bother him for a time, Tachkal searched for her. He found Dianthe sitting with her legs bunched up, knees nearly touching her chin. He approached at his own leisure, noting the distant look in her wide eyes. Tachkal followed her sightless gaze and felt his lip curl back in a snarl.

"You leave Lord Dagon's Razor to lie in filth?" he shouted. Tachkal snatched up the Razor, gripping the cursed blade until his palm cut as he offered the hilt to Dianthe. She wrinkled her nose, "you're hurting yourself."

"Take it," he growled. When she made no further move he dropped to a knee, roughly yanking her arm out and shoving the hilt into her hand, clasping her fingers around it for her. Dianthe stared at the daedric blood staining her pale skin. He clamped both her limp hands around the Razor, pushing her hands back against her chest, forcing her to cradle the blade.

"Tachkal," she began, but her voice broke. She paused a moment, clasping his wrist and keeping the warm gauntlet against her bosom, "I don't think Lord Dagon minds the Razor lying in filth. He did give it to me, after all."

He felt a muscle under his eye twitch, a bark of laughter escaping before he could restrain himself. Dianthe stared up at the chuckling Dremora with wide wonder filled eyes as she took in his gleaming fangs and the pull of his red facial markings when he wiped a drop of moisture from his eye. She in turn felt her own stubborn despondency slip away, a grin tugging at her lips as her nose crinkled. She didn't know Dremora could laugh, or that Tachkal could smile without blood covering his face. He looked nice like this.

When he composed himself Tachkal hauled Dianthe to her feet. She teetered a bit but Tachkal righted her. She looked up at him, feeling oddly shy. Stepping out of his arms Dianthe sheathed the Razor at her hip and patted ash from her rear. She spared a moment to finger the ebon scabbard, running the tip of her finger around the silver daedric rune. The Prince's influence was showing in her, the cruelty in her kills, her desire and nonchalance with bloodletting, and the strange lusts.

Her small hand tightened around the bloody hilt. It could be the Prince's hold over her, or she had always been like this beneath the surface. That was why Dagon had given her the Razor, the key to her potential. He'd known her true nature all along. Dianthe could almost laugh at the thought, the absurdity of her being champion to the Prince of Destruction, of Ambition, of Change.

Dianthe briefly entertained the though of returning to their cozy room at the Netch, of testing out Neloth's enchanted ring and catching a normal night's rest for the first time in years. Then again, she had the rest of her life to waste sleeping and only a few more hours of daylight to burn exploring Solstheim.

"Captain Veleth said something interesting about Fort Frostmouth. Let's check it out."

The ash spawn guarding the fort fell easily enough, brutalized and split apart by Tachkal's greatsword. Dianthe crouched over the remains, sifting through the ashes for any valuable gems or ore, occasionally taking pinches of the ash for alchemical purposes. They found an East Empire pendant within the fort along with ruby and sapphire geodes. Dianthe had a spring in her step and a weighty jingle to her pack by the time they reached General Falx Carius.

Dianthe had spotted him first, holding out an arm and dropping into a crouch. Tachkal took note, silently drawing his daedric greatsword and falling into a wide stance. Dipping her bolts into a potent poison of slow bottled on her hip she readied the crossbow and with a quiet snap she fired. She managed four more hits before Carius pinpointed her location. Ducking to the side she began readying another poisoned bolt and made way for Tachkal who rocketed forward to meet the long dead general. Ash spawn began to crawl from the ashes all around them, stirred by the thunderous clashing of Carius's warhammer meeting Tachkal's greatsword.

The ash spawn converged on Dianthe, their slow movements affording her a handful of successful hits until a fire bolt caught her arm. She cried out, disoriented as heat stung her eyes and the scent of her own burnt armor met her. One of the creatures took full advantage, lunging with its condensed ashen blade. The molten sword came down hard, Dianthe barely managing to shield the blow with her crossbow. The blade stuck fast, twisting and melting into the steel and wood weapon. Dianthe screamed as globs of steel dripped onto her hands. She threw herself to the side, hitting the ground in a roll and popping up to her feet with the Razor already drawn.

From the corner of her eye she saw Carius had corralled Tachkal to the raised portion of the room and was bearing down on him. Flames erupted over the Dremora's back, three ash spawn converging on the dueling pair. Dianthe ripped her attention from the daedra, barely bowing away from another blade swing before she retaliated with a flurry of dagger strikes.

She fell into a dangerous dance, twisting away from fire bolts and ash swords only to spin back and tear into the monsters. Dianthe was a skilled fighter but her skills lay in archery. She was quickly worn down by the creatures, dodging and healing where she could. When the lumbering pillars of reanimated sediment had collapsed Dianthe took a moment to clutch her bleeding arm. She'd run out of magic and potions long ago. Turning, she brandished her charred Razor and made after Carius.

Tachkal had not anticipated the weakness of the Dawnguard armor. The flames burnt through the cuirass, melted away the steel plates and brought his pauldrons to a glowing hot red. All it took was a fraction of a second for him to let the pain move to the forefront of his senses, and the warhammer caught his shoulder. The heated pauldron collapsed like dough, the strike knocking his shoulder from the socket and the greatsword from his hands. He tripped forward but did not fall. In the meantime Carius's attention had been drawn away from the disarmed Dremora.

Dianthe shivered when the reanimated general's eyes found her, but she held her ground. Carius's movements had recovered from her poison but she was light on her feet. All she needed was to skirt around his slow swings, she'd done more impossible things before. Still, one hit from the warhammer was enough to kill. She glanced at Tachkal who was fending off an ash spawn with his bare hand, the other arm hanging limply. She wasn't going to find aid here.

She darted in and out, diving and rolling where need be and making use of throwing any furniture she could spare in the general's face before sliding in and slicing at his arms and trunk. Carius bellowed, brining the warhammer down and shattering stone beneath. Dianthe wheezed, just stepping back in time to avoid an obliterated skull. The flash of fire against her chest caught her off guard.

Dianthe swatted at her chest, quickly backing away as smoke stung her eyes shut and burned her lungs. Her gloves were in tatters when she'd smothered the flames. When she finally looked up it was too late.


	7. Chapter 7

Teldryn Sero sat out on the lip of the village well, swaying as he licked the last few drops of flin from the bottle. He hadn't had a client in nearly a season, saying his purse was feather light would be an understatement. With what he owed Mogrul he might as well call it netch light. He grumbled, clumsily setting the earthenware bottle down near his feet. Maybe he ought've taken Dianthe up on her offer to go gallivanting about the island together, her unfriendly Dremora be damned. The sellsword frowned, straightening his mouth cover. There was a shout, Captain Veleth searching for Aphia, for any healer. Teldryn leaned forward, peering through scuffed lenses to see what was causing the commotion. His breath caught in his throat.

The Dremora trudged through the ash. His armor lay scorched and torn, full of holes and warped steel. That wasn't what grabbed his attention, nor why the old Dunmer priestess was being called for. Aphia covered her mouth, scarlet eyes drawn wide at the sight of what lay in the daedra's arms.

Her armor was worn in the same way as the Dremora's, covered in soot and burn marks with patches torn away. Cracked and blackened skin covered her middle and climbed up along her cheek, segments of her blonde hair burnt off. That was inconsequential, forgettable compared to the rest of her. Blood coated the Dremora, but it wasn't his. From the knee down Dianthe's right leg was gone, only scorched seeping ribbons of flesh remaining.

Milore gasped to his right, dropping her pestle. In a flash she gathered up her healing potions and chased after Aphia and the Dremora, the group disappearing into the Netch. Teldryn got to his feet, catching himself against a nearby urn when the world tilted. A trail of gore snaked through the ash to the cornerclub's entrance. Steeling himself through his drunken stupor, he pushed open the Netch's doors and followed the trail of red slicking the stones. He leaned against a table in the taproom when the screams started.

Aphia and Milore were shouting, pleading for someone to stop. Teldryn ran forward, nearly getting hit by Veleth who'd been thrown from Dianthe's room. The sellsword peered in as the captain got to his feet and felt his hands go numb. Tachkal had the Breton lying on the bed, a knee on her stomach as he held her thigh in place. Brandishing his greatsword he pressed the flat of the blade against her open wound. Hissing pops of searing flesh filled the room, deafened by Dianthe's shrieking. She thrashed, tearing at the knee pinning her until the tips of her fingers bled. The odor of burning flesh made Teldryn gag, getting thrown aside by Veleth who threw himself bodily against the Dremora.

Dianthe remained sobbing and shaking, unresponsive as Aphia tried to call out to her and Milore began offering potions. Salves and restoration magic were quickly applied when it became apparent Dianthe couldn't swallow. Tachkal and Veleth crashed into furniture across the room, snapping a table in half and shattering a bookshelf against bonemold armor. Dianthe quaked a moment longer, her charred fingers clutching at the blood soaked pelts beneath her, before falling slack and unconscious.

"Veleth!" Aphia barked, two palm fulls of healing magic pressing over Dianthe's knee, "the Dremora was cauterizing the wound, leave him," she demanded. Both mer and daedra faced each other, circling with their arms spread wide and bodies tense. In his wounded state Tachkal was breathing heavy, blood dripping from his lip from where the captain had broken a bottle of sujamma against the daedra's face. For her part Milore ignored the commotion, applying poultices to the burns.

Teldryn regained control of his legs, cautiously moving to place his hand on the captain's shoulder. The Dunmer remained taught, coiled and ready to rip into the Dremora at the drop of a pin. The strained moment eventually passed, Veleth relenting and backing away with a grunt. Teldryn hesitated at the foot of the bed before following the Redoran Captain out of the room. Dianthe was quickly being stripped of her ruined armor, exposing yet more brutalized flesh beneath. His stomach turned, the sellsword clenching his hands into fists.

"Weren't you supposed to protect her?" he hissed, turning to the Dremora, "isn't that all she wants you for, to keep her alive long enough to find peace before she turns herself over to you?" Teldryn shouted, gesturing at the crippled woman. There would be no recovering her lost limb; her life was forever changed because the only thing she trusted to keep her safe was a mortal hating beast. Tachkal didn't look away from Teldryn's helm, yet nor did he take advantage of his mistress's inability to restrain him. He could rip apart this elf for speaking to him so disrespectfully but he didn't.

The sellsword shook his head, spitting Dunmeris curses as he left. Tachkal remained far from the working healers but his eyes never left Dianthe. Milore and Aphia worked for as long as they could and did as much as they knew but eventually even they left, craving to escape from under the Dremora's presence. He let them go, slamming the door after Milore. He removed his own tattered armor, using the rag and water the womer had cleaned Dianthe with to wipe away the soot and dried blood sticking to his dark flesh. Then he settled cross-legged on the bed beside Dianthe, glaring down at the still unconscious girl.

The healers had removed her clothing and changed the bedding once her wounds had been dealt with. The ichor soaked pelts lay in a copper scented pile on the floor, Dianthe now lying nude wrapped in a snow bear pelt. Unceremoniously he yanked the fur back to examine her, his unreadable sable eyes trailing over the wounded pale flesh. Where the burns had been only red tender skin now lay, likely to scar and perhaps restrain her mobility around her abdomen but otherwise it was inconsequential. Patches of the newly rebuilt pink skin travelled up her left arm, ending in a smear across her jaw and cheek. He roughly ran his fingers through her damaged hair, grimacing as the scorched ends crumpled at his touch. She'd need a haircut.

Reluctantly he turned his attention to the bandaged blunted end of her knee, every muscle in his shoulders going taught as he ground his jaw. He'd been too slow, too weak to stop the reanimated general. The enchanted warhammer had landed over her while she'd tried to struggle away. He couldn't remember much after she started screaming. Tachkal had seen red; falling into a berserker's rage he'd ripped apart everything left in the fort. When he'd come to Dianthe's leg was shattered, crushed and splintered yet hanging on by a few strands of flesh. When he'd picked her up the weight of her damaged limb had torn itself from her knee. He knew these kinds of wounds, knew she didn't have long. That she was alive now was a testament to the two elves and their magic and alchemy.

Throwing the fur back over her, he sighed, running a shaking hand through his hair. He'd almost lost her. Tachkal stiffened. No, she was supposed to die. That was their deal, she ends up dead and he gets to rip apart her soul for eternity. He wasn't supposed to worry about her safety or feel concerned for her. The Dremora should find her pain pleasurable, her suffering sweet nectar in this foul mortal realm.

Instead he delved into her ragged clothes and salvaged the soot stained enchanted ring. Sparing it a suspicious glance he shoved it onto one of Dianthe's undamaged fingers. Smothering the lantern on the bedside table, Tachkal lay facing the Breton. Hesitantly he lightly rest his arm over her fur covered middle, ignoring the ache in his chest.


	8. Chapter 8

Dianthe remained in bed for a week more, thwarted at every attempt to use a crutch and escape the dull room by Tachkal. He didn't quite dote on her but where she needed help in moving around he was willing to lift her. When she requested items and the broken furniture be replaced he obliged, only leaving for brief spells of time. She'd only broken down once, crumbling into a sobbing mess when the reality of her injury finally sank in. Tachkal had allowed her to lean against his chest, let her rub her wet face against his tunic while he kept his hands knotted into the pelts. When he'd not responded with anything other than silence Dianthe swallowed down her tumultuous state of mind and forced herself to calm. After that she restrained herself, throwing her focus into figuring out how to get moving again.

With Glover Mallory's aid, she did.

"Netch leather for the straps, Dwemer metal so it won't rust, and fresh Solstheim lumber from the north," the blacksmith slapped Dianthe's new wooden calf, "looks better than most. Even if it isn't alive." He stood holding her forearms while she balanced precariously across from him. The prosthetic fit perfectly, holstered with leather straps and metal buckles around the thigh and descending into a dark wooden calf. It was sculpted to match her other leg; the new foot even had dents in it to suggest toes. Small spots of shining golden Dwemer metal glinted back from the joints, peeking around the dark purple netch leather at the knee and ankle. Carefully Dianthe shifted her weight, surprised it held.

"Will probably be a while before you can walk on your own but I figure you and the daedra are already attached at the hip," Glover smirked. Tachkal ignored him, the Dremora's attention held fast to the newly sculpted limb. Dianthe had never seen such unrestrained curiosity in him, his eyes wide and ears slightly perked. The blacksmith took her through how to care for the prosthetic, what waxes and oils to buff what with and how frequently. When they finished their little tutorial she awkwardly lurched two steps and grabbed onto Tachkal's arm, leaning heavily on the offered limb.

"How much do I owe you?" Dianthe asked, trying to regain her balance. Glover waved his hand, "on the house for finding my bonemold recipe awhile back. Stay out of trouble, kids," he dismissed, turning towards his grindstone. Tachkal began to lead her back to the Netch but Dianthe dug her heels into the ash. She slipped, dropping to a knee and hanging off the Dremora's arm as he raised an eyebrow at her.

"I've been cooped up for days. Let's go down to the Earth Stone," she begged, clinging on as Tachkal lifted his arm, briefly allowing her to dangle in the air before she righted her feet.

"You can't walk. I will not carry you," he growled. Dianthe sighed through her nose, "then to the docks at least." When the Dremora glanced back to the Netch Dianthe squeezed his thick forearm. "_Please._"

Tachkal muttered something in his native tongue before hauling the crippled girl along. Dianthe found an odd way of swinging her thigh to propel the limb forward. She clunked slowly behind her daedra until the two of them came to a stop on the docks in front of the dilapidated houses at the northeastern end of the settlement. Wiping sweat from her brow Dianthe sat down, swinging her good leg over the edge of the boards. The Dremora joined her, hanging both his long legs over the water. Dianthe sighed, arching back in a stretch and groaning luxuriously at the pops in her spine. Tachkal stared blankly forward, idly watching the Northern Maiden's crew attending to their ship.

"So your armor's feeling alright?" Dianthe asked, tugging on his spiked pauldron. Glover had managed to get the daedra hearts in early and had made short work of repairing Tachkal's cuirass. Not a moment too soon either, seeing as how their Dawnguard armors were utterly destroyed. Dianthe had fallen into the habit of wearing a red set of Dunmeri clothes while she waited for Gjalund's crew to hunt down another crossbow and set of light Dawnguard armor for her. Tachkal grunted, letting her grope at his cuirass and dig her fingers in against the newly repaired portions.

"That's good," she yawned, rapping her knuckles across her wooden leg. They fell into a quiet lull, listening to the harbor waters lap against the docked boats and the occasional shout from the Redoran Guards to the sailors. Dianthe turned her attention to the dock, scraping a blunt fingernail against the wood grain.

"I know you don't care and you're just doing this because you have to," she began, pausing to find the right words, "but I want to thank you for all you've done, Tachkal." The Dremora blinked down at his mistress, his brow furrowed. Dianthe pushed the hair back from her face as the wind picked up, skin taking on an embarrassed pink beneath the scarf. "It's just you've been a lot of help. I don't exactly have friends but I'd like to think – " she stopped herself, not meeting the daedra's attentive eyes, "never mind, I'm being stupid."

"Then it is no different than usual," Tachkal rumbled, "speak."

"I'm happy to have you around," she huffed, growing more flustered, "thanks for watching my back. I wouldn't have made it this far without you. Neloth's ring works perfectly, I can sleep again, and now I've got you and the Razor to keep Vaermina's faithful in check. I mean I don't have a leg now and I'm still addicted to moon sugar but besides that I haven't felt so peaceful in years." Taking a deep breath, Dianthe grasped one of the tall spikes adorning Tachkal's pauldron and tugged him closer. Unsure why he didn't resist, the Dremora leaned in.

The kiss was barely a brush against his ebon cheek. The quickest of butterfly soft touches against his hot skin. In the brief moment before Dianthe repositioned her scarf Tachkal saw the girl's cheeks glowing cerise, even her ears burning. He remained hunched over, his chest tight while he dug his claws into the dock, splintering the old dry wood beneath. Squirming uncomfortably, Dianthe began to awkwardly climb to her feet using the daedra's shoulder.

"We should get back to the Netch – " her words caught in her throat when Tachkal yanked her into his lap, hard dark eyes boring down into hers. She couldn't move, immobilized by the oily obsidian gaze. Her small hands tightened against his cuirass, her toes curling as he hesitantly closed the distance between them. Her breathing hitched, lips tingling with the warmth of his breath. She felt his heavy arms curling around her tighter, pulling her against his chest.

Tachkal didn't understand the draw of Dianthe's lips. He didn't want to make her suffer, as was his normal fascination with her weak body. Something about her fragile state had changed his views. Where he was rock and blood she was spun sugar and soft touches. Curling a hand into the back of her hair he dipped forward, ripping the scarf from her throat with his teeth. Dianthe gasped, jolting in his arms when he pressed his dark lips against her pale flesh. He nuzzled the point where her jaw curved to her ear, deeply breathing in her honey and earthen scent.

"What are you do – doing?" Dianthe's voice hitched as Tachkal bit down on her thin skin, suckling. He licked at the bruised mark, pulling back just enough to growl, "shut up," before delving down back to her sweet smell. She pushed her fingers through his hair, grabbing onto the ivory horns proudly curving back from his skull. Tachkal bent possessively over her as Dianthe's breathing became progressively more uncontrolled. She arched, pulling him closer by his horns as the Dremora dipped his tongue into the hollow of her clavicle. He drew his fangs across the creamy skin leaving streaks of stinging red in his wake. A reluctant mewl escaped Dianthe's parted lips, her fingers tightening around his solid horns.

"You two want to move this inside?" a Redoran guard called. Dianthe jumped, slapping her hands over her now flushed face. She was red from her ears to her toes, absolutely mortified. Tachkal unlatched from his mistress, sparing a withering glare at the guard. It didn't take long for the Dunmer to hurry along down the docks. The Dremora turned back to the girl in his lap to continue where they'd been interrupted only to have a hand clapped over his mouth, stopping the movement.

"No, he's right we shouldn't be out here," Dianthe shook her head, already struggling out of his lap. She was having trouble sidling away; trying to unlatch from the daedra's arms while her new clunky prosthetic leg complicated not falling into the harbor. Shaking her hand off Tachkal stood and lifted her up along with him before setting her on her feet. There was a brief moment where her abused throat was exposed before Dianthe readjusted her scarf, and the marks coloring her flesh stirred his loins. He helped her limp back to the Netch, fully expecting to continue exploring her. When Dianthe plunked down into a seat across from the sellsword in the back of the taproom Tachkal's hands tightened into irritated fists. She turned her back to the Dremora, ordering a drink from Geldis.

Letting a snarl rip from his chest Tachkal stalked off, slamming shut the door to their room. Heavily he dropped onto the mattress, the bedframe creaking beneath his weight. Baring his fanged teeth he glared at the stone ceiling, running a hand through his hair and spitting daedric curses under his breath. He traced the spot on his cheek where Dianthe had given him the smallest of kisses. It burned.

.

.

.

**/AN: Poor Tachkal, the most sexually frustrated character I've ever written/**


	9. Chapter 9

Dianthe shivered, tugging the thick Skaal coat tight against the ice flecked wind. She and Tachkal had travelled to the Skaal village in northern Solstheim, only because the Breton was wildly curious about the strange Nords. Her Dremora was less enthused, moving through hip deep snowdrifts with his hands stuffed under his arms. Dianthe had managed to wrap a thick red scarf around his throat but other than that he only wore his daedric armor. Periodically Dianthe would chug a potion for frost resistance, her face a chill burnt pink.

They arrived in the village just before dusk. Tachkal was the subject of more than one wary glance and low spoken murmur but for the most part the Nords remained to themselves. Asking around for a place to stay after exploring what they could stand after so many hours meandering through the cold, they were directed to a short squat hut. Shoving through doors, Dianthe groaned at the wall of steamy warm air that blew back her hood. Immediately the snow and ice coating the Dremora and Breton's armors began to melt, the feeling returning to their extremities as blood blushed back into their fingertips.

It was a bathhouse built over a natural hot spring. The proprietor showed them to a small, bare room. It was rustic like most everything related to the Skaal, only housing a single trunk, dish of candles, and palette of furs. It didn't take long until both had shucked their frost bitten clothing in favor of a towel before nearly bolting into the bathing area. Of course Dianthe had to remove her wooden leg in the process and Tachkal reluctantly carried her to the bath.

Dianthe slid into the water up to just below her nose, bubbling out a thankful moan. Beside her Tachkal sloshed into the water, leaning back against the rocky ledge and stretching out his long dark legs until he was covered up around his shoulders. The other bathers quickly removed themselves after spying the obsidian skinned Dremora's scarlet markings and ice coated horns. One moment they had company, the next Dianthe dunked her head underwater only to come up and find she and her Dremora alone in the steamy waters.

"You should try being more friendly," Dianthe advised, stretching her neck this way and that. Tachkal leveled a skeptical eye down at the girl who simply shrugged, smiling under the water. She moved through the semi-opaque hot spring to a deeper portion of the pool. Things had been a little strained after their rendezvous on the docks. Tachkal had been reserved around her since then, speaking to her even less than usual. There was still the faintest purple mark at the base of her jaw, but there had been nothing more exciting in the past few weeks other than Dianthe relearning how to walk.

Yawning, she scrubbed the oils and sweat from her face and body. She jumped when a claw scraped her back. Blinking warily over her shoulder she found Tachkal had moved to her side, running his calloused palms against her shoulders. "What are you doing?" she mumbled suspiciously.

"Washing your back, whore," the Dremora growled. Dianthe rolled her eyes but relaxed into his touch. She'd never figured out why he called her such things. It wasn't as if she went gallivanting around with every man and mer she ran into, by the gods she hadn't known anyone intimately in years. Tachkal's ministrations at the dock had been the first time she'd felt any stirrings between her legs in a long time.

She focused on working her fingers through her hair. After the encounter with General Carius and his ash spawn her hair had suffered. It had been shorn down until it lay only a few inches long, a decidedly boyish cut. Milore and Teldryn had both assured her she had feminine enough features to pull it off but Dianthe wasn't so sure. Beneath the water Tachkal's nails scraped up her sides, eliciting a shudder from the girl. She focused on ignoring his wandering hands.

Behind her, Tachkal tilted his head, wet strands of hair sticking to his neck and shoulders. Curiously he scraped his nails down her spine, holding her shoulder so she had to endure the pain. Dianthe gasped, futilely attempting to arch out of his reach. He smirked as red streaks blossomed against her lily pale back. There was something satisfying about marking her body. Sliding his hands down the underside of her arms he just felt the soft swell of her breasts before settling an iron grip around her hips. Dianthe shivered, only making Tachkal more curious.

Dianthe, to her credit, knew something was going on with her Dremora and attempted to move away. She didn't anticipate the toned arm wrapping around her middle and yanking her against the daedra's chest. She slapped the water, suddenly unbalanced before clutching at the black wrist pressing into her breasts. "Tachkal, let me g – " she choked as two thick fingers pushed into her mouth, silencing her command. The Dremora nuzzled her ear, raking his teeth against the curved pink skin.

"You talk too much," he rumbled, inclining his head to lick the length of Dianth's cheek. She tried to pull from his grip, trying to ignore her body's response beneath the water or how the air and daedra's ministrations had her nipples stiffening. Tachkal turned her in his arms, pulling her flush against his chest. He licked his fangs, staring intently at her pink lips stretched around his dark fingers. Dianthe's eyes widened at the royal purple tongue, never before realizing it was forked. Slowly he retracted his digits from her mouth, a string of saliva momentarily connecting them. He didn't give her a chance to utter a word before crushing his mouth against hers.

Dianthe squeezed her eyes shut, her thighs gripping around Tachkal's waist and fingers digging into his biceps. She didn't fight him as he clutched the back of her head and bit her bottom lip, pulling his fangs across the soft plump skin. His lips were boiling and hungry, his tongue burning as it delved into her mouth. Tentatively she responded, licking at his bizarre forked tongue. The growl that ripped from his throat made her start, once again falling prone to his attack.

Beneath the hot waters his hand began to wander, moving down to grip her ass. Dianthe yelped into his mouth, digging her nails against his shoulders. He smirked into the lusting kiss, kneading the thick flesh beneath his rough palm. Dianthe broke the kiss, dropping her cheek against his chest to catch her breath, dizzy from heat and lack of oxygen while he drifted to the edge of the pool, allowing Dianthe to rest against his lap. Shifting in his hold, she gasped at the stiff press of his arousal against her thigh. Tachkal grinned down at her, chuckling at her flush.

"I think we should go back to our room," Dianthe suggested shyly, yelping when the Dremora sharply stood from the hot water. She barely managed to cover herself in a towel before he strode from the bathing area. Tachkal all but tore down the door to their room, kicking it shut behind him with his mistress in his arms. He dropped her in the pelts, their hair and skin still damp, before ripping away his towel. Dianthe's heart seized, her hands clutching at the towel covering her chest when she finally got a look at the hard length the Dremora unabashedly exposed.

"Scared, slut?" Tachkal grinned, dropping to his knees before her, roughly spreading her legs. Dianthe shot up into a sitting position, grasping his shoulders, "wait!"

Tachkal grimaced, dark lips curling back to show his fangs, "_what_?"

Dianthe glanced around anxiously, heart hammering in her chest. Did she want this? If the ache at the apex of her thighs was any sign then yes, and _badly_. Yet she was still nervous, unsure if she was ready or capable after so many years. Even back then she hadn't particularly enjoyed her sexual escapades, performing her duties more out of obligation than want. But somehow she wanted to explore her partner.

"Lie down," she ordered. Glaring, Tachkal did as he was commanded, his immense body spreading out along the pelts. Dianthe took a moment to take in his form, clutching at her towel. His skin was charcoal black, shining in the scant candlelight. Bulging with toned muscle and knitted with cruel silver scars she followed the length of his body until her sights settled on the thick hardness laying against his belly.

His shaft was thick, plum black with a glistening head and matching set of weighty balls beneath. The glans glistened wetly. Tentatively, she slid her fingers across his inner thigh, marveling at the sheer heat his body threw off. She bit back a smirk at the tensing of the muscle beneath before drawing her fingertips to his member. She cupped his balls, each one large enough to fill her palm, before sliding up the length and rubbing the pad of her thumb against the head of his cock. She giggled nervously when he twitched beneath her touch, shyly introducing her other hand to the effort and simply exploring him. Dianthe traced the proud ridge of the glans, slid her finger against the slit, smearing a few drops of clear precum down his shaft and the bulging veins that textured his cock. Keeping one hand massaging his balls she removed her towel and settled between his legs. She lay on her stomach and with one last glance up into Tachkal's dark eyes, pressed her lips against his member.

She worshipped him like no other had, her warm mouth drawing up and down his dark cock. She kept her hands massaging his length, pressing soft licks and timid kisses against his head before dipping down to nuzzle and pull each of his balls against her mouth, licking and suckling. Tachkal dropped his head against the pelts, digging his claws into the furs. He wanted to be done with this, to knot his claws into her hair and force himself balls deep into her hot mouth, to face fuck her until he spilled every drop of seed down her throat until she choked. Instead he endured, grunting sharply at times and resisting the need to thrust into her mouth.

Taking a deep breath, exhaling against his sensitive skin, Dianthe began to take him into her. His girth stretched her lips while her tongue slid against his velvet flesh. The salty flavor filled her mouth as she slid her hands around his base, the other cupping and rolling his weighty balls. Dianthe squeezed her thighs together, her core already slick with arousal. She continued to work her lips and tongue, swallowing down more of Tachkal's thick cock until she finally managed to reach his base.

Ever so slowly she pulled back, gently scraping her teeth along the soft skin. Tachkal moaned, arching tightly as his nails tore strips from the pelts. Dianthe felt a pulse of domineering pleasure in her womanhood, marveling at how completely she controlled the Dremora. Only through her kindness did she allow him such pleasures, it was a shame she could be so cruel. Dianthe began to bob, undulating her tongue against the hard twitching cock, swirling the round head under her tongue and lips. She suckled and nipped at the tender skin, moaning against the twin weights as she pulled the burning shaft faster and deeper into her mouth. She twisted her fist around his base and massaged his balls with the other as she moved, her jaw forced open as wide as it could to accommodate his girth.

Tachkal was at his breaking point. He gripped Dianthe's hair and forced her down, grinding her nose against the base of his abdomen and let out a snarl as he bucked into her mouth. His body tightened, curling as he came. Dianthe's eyes watered as he came, his cum was a thick, abundant gel. The creamy liquid poured down her throat, the Dremora keeping her forced against him giving her no choice but to swallow the seemingly never ending pumps of cum. He continued to spill his seed in Dianthe's silken mouth, only letting her go when his arms went slack with the aftershocks of his bodily orgasm.

Dianthe leaned back, letting the plum black cock fall from her lips. The heavy white liquid threatened to pour from her lips, the sheer excess of it making it difficult for Dianthe to swallow it down. She brushed her fingers against her lips, quickly licking it from her fingertips. Tachkal shivered as the last of his seed spilled hotly over Dianthe's small breasts, his body finally falling slack against the pelts to catch his breath. Dianthe sat back, curiously smearing the cream over her nipples, laughing at her own debauched state. If she weren't in Sanguine's favor before she certainly was now.

Sucking her fingers clean, Dianthe crawled to his side, smiling fondly at Tachkal's delirious expression. She slid her fingers through his drying hair, her heart swelling when his obsidian eyes cracked open.

"I never thought you were actually a whore," he said hoarsely. Dianthe spluttered a flustered laugh, flushing even more than before. The Dremora smiled then, an unguarded openness showing for once in his expression. Unable to contain herself Dianthe leaned forward and gave him a small peck on the lips, sitting back and grinning. Tachkal sat up and pulled his mistress in to his naked lap, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling deeply while she squirmed in his arms.

"You know," she began, brushing the pad of her thumb against the bud of his nipple. The Dremora rumbled a query; too busy memorizing her scent to form words.

"It's not very fair that I had to do all the work and you had all the fun," she began coyly, biting her lip to stifle a moan as he licked and breathed against her ear.

"And what do you want me to do about that?" he murmured, dark lips, brushing against her sensitive flesh. Dianthe shuddered, scraping her nails against the hard bud of his nipple in retaliation. Digging her nails into his dark chest, she arched in his arms, biting his collarbone before breathing, "pleasure me."

Tachkal's nails bit into her soft skin, drawing blood. Dianthe sighed contentedly as the large daedric hands moved to her chest, kneading the small plush breasts and massaging his still warm cum against her pale pink nipples. He felt himself thickening again at the sight of this small woman wearing his marks and seed so willingly, her sweaty and flushed body arching hungrily for his touch. He smirked as her eyes fluttered shut when he laid her against the pelts, sliding his fingers past her plump lips. When she willingly sucked the long black digits he grinned. She may be his mistress, but she belonged to him. For now and forever.

Tachkal scraped his teeth against her breasts, biting until his fangs elicited pinpricks of blood. She quivered from his attention, groping the back of his head and attempting to force his lips closer to her sensitive breasts. He smirked, trailing his royal purple tongue down to her stomach, the foreign feeling of his forked tongue making Dianthe's toes curl. Moving between her thighs he lifted her legs, hooking one knee over his shoulder and on her shortened limb he pressed it wide against the furs. Slowly he dragged his rough palm against her moist slit, smirking at the glisten against the heel of his hand before lapping it clean.

"What do you want?" Tachkal leered, setting his already hardened girth against her small, wet womanhood. Dianthe glared heatedly up at him, biting her bottom lip. The Dremora gripped his shaft, rubbing the bulbous head of his cock against the length of her core, paying special attention to rub his glans against the sensitive crest of her womanhood. Dianthe moaned painfully, flushed and arching.

"Say it, tell me what you want, girl," Tachkal growled, leaning forward and bracing himself over her squirming body. Finally she gasped, her eyes glazed and dark with lust, "I want you inside me."

The Dremora snarled, digging his claws into her hips and forcing himself into her tight cunt in one hard thrust. Dianthe's eyes rolled, her hips lifting willingly into his hands as Tachkal thrust roughly into her, his hefty balls beating against her with each pump. He was merciless, dragging himself out until only the tip of his member stretched her before driving himself back in to the hilt, grinding against her pelvis as if he could somehow bury himself deeper inside.

Dianthe's body stretched around the ebon girth, fluttering tightly at each intrusion. Above her Tachkal's lips were parted, the tips of his fangs visible as he thrust. Dianthe relished the sound of his body meeting hers, the slaps sending small spasms through her as heat and pleasure began to coil in a forgotten tension in her hips. She moaned, whispering nonsense and begging for the Dremora to take her, to fill her, to do all that he wanted and brutalize her so much more. In turn Tachkal dropped to his elbows, his hips wildly meeting hers until she jerked in place. The daedra kissed her throat then bit deeply into her shoulder, tasting blood as his mistress keened and gripped his hair and horns. With one final pump he climaxed, spilling into her womb.

The Dremora's thick cum quickly filled her tight womanhood, overflowing and running onto her thighs and buttocks even as he continued to spurt into her. She shivered, clenching around him in a vice as the sensation brought her to orgasm, her blunt nails digging into his shoulders she bit against the scarred nick in the Dremora's ear. He shuddered at the spasms of her small body beneath his, reluctantly pulling out, dribbling more of the creamy liquid over her stomach as he leaned back and looked over his mistress.

She was covered in him, shining in the candlelight even as her breathing hitched from the aftershocks of her orgasm, her body flushed and bleeding in the spots he'd marked her with. Slowly he returned to lie on her, licking the blood from her shoulder away as sleep pulled at him from his satisfaction. Dianthe sighed against his ear, nuzzling into their sticky embrace as she wrapped her arms around her Dremora.

"Satisfied?" Tachkal grinned against her throat. Dianthe smiled.

"Only if we do this again."

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**/AN: My fetishes are fantastic and goddamn do I enjoy writing sex scenes./**


	10. Chapter 10

"Leaving so soon?" Teldryn asked, setting down his bottle of sujamma. Dianthe nodded, twisting the silver ring on her finger. "I figure I've taken care of what I needed to here and I've been away from the Dawnguard for too long."

The spellsword shrugged amiably but couldn't contain his disappointment, "that's too bad, you and the daedra were the only interesting things to blow through here since the that Dragonborn fellow came by." They both glanced over at the burly Redguard sitting at the bar, twin enchanted scimitars hanging from his hip and thick black dreads spilling down his back. Dianthe shrugged, finishing off her bottle of flin.

"Who knows, maybe he'll hire you and you'll get to hear all about his adventures," she said trying to raise Teldryn's spirits. The Dunmer rolled his eyes behind his helm, "I don't need your pity, sera. So, Neloth really helped you out, hm? That's a damned miracle."

Dianthe splayed out her fingers to show off the ring, "I still barely sleep but it's an improvement. Figure I'll hole up in Fort Dawnguard and have the other vampire hunters strap me up to a stretching rack until I'm through withdrawing from moon sugar, then I'll be nearly back to where I was before this whole mess started," she half joked. If she knew anything about Isran she knew he'd be more than willing to entertain her plan. Although she had to figure a way to get the former Vigilant of Stendarr to let Tachkal around, which she was fairly sure she could do since he let that Volkihar woman wander the Fort. Teldryn inclined his head towards the Dremora standing in the shadows, the daedra's eyes half lidded in disinterest as he watched over the bustling taproom. "What about him?"

She leaned back in her chair, considering her guardian. Idly she fingered the Razor at her hip, wondering if their binding still stood should Mehrunes Dagon decide he wanted her soul for himself. She was his champion, after all. Dianthe shrugged, blowing her pale bangs from her eyes. "He sticks with me. Come Oblivion or Aetherius," she and Tachkal locked eyes, a spark of smug heat reflecting in each other's gaze.

"He couldn't leave me if he wanted to."

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**/AN: That's it y'all! Thanks for reading, makes me feel like a contributing member of society. Hope everybody has a fantastic ass day!/**


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